Dead in the Water

Mullen said nothing. It seemed more diplomatic in the circumstances.

The first finger of Dorkin’s right hand prodded him on the sternum. “You said you lived in the Iffley Road!”

Mullen wasn’t going to cave in to bullying. “I moved.”

“You trying to play silly buggers with me, Mullen?”

Mullen reverted to silence. He thought it might be safer. Behind Dorkin stood a man Mullen hadn’t seen before, presumably a detective constable or sergeant. But whatever his rank, structurally he was extremely impressive, six feet four if he was an inch and with the physique (and face) of an old fashioned bare-knuckle boxer.

“We’d like you to come to the station, if that is not too much trouble,” the man-mountain said, deadpan.

Mullen nodded.

As for Dorkin, his mood suddenly appeared lighter, almost skittish. He smiled. “Or even if it is.”

* * *

Doreen Rankin was used to her boss’s erratic time-keeping. Arriving just in time for meetings was something he had developed into an art. “I’d rather sit at home in my pyjamas, do an hour or two on my laptop and then drive in after the rush hour." He had told her as much on the second day of her employment at GenMedSoft, just after he had appeared in his office at ten twenty-five in the morning. She had been in a mild panic because a man and a woman were sitting in reception, having arrived early for a meeting scheduled for ten thirty. “If you minimise wasted time, you maximise productivity,” he concluded serenely. “And sitting in the traffic is wasted time.”

So when he had still not turned up at ten forty-five that Wednesday morning, she was not unduly worried. Besides, she had had plenty to do, and it was only when the marketing director Eddie Loach rang up for the third time and complained that Paul wasn’t answering his emails or his mobile calls that she decided she would have to intervene. In point of fact, Paul had two mobiles, but his personal one he kept personal. Only Doreen knew the number and even she used it very sparingly. She didn’t like Loach and she certainly didn’t trust him. He was a man who would cause trouble for Paul if he possibly could, and trouble for Paul would mean trouble for her. So she sent a text to Paul’s personal mobile. There was no response. She waited ten minutes, during which time an external client in a bad mood rang to speak to Paul.

As far as she was concerned, that was enough. She dialled his mobile. After five rings, it cut into an answerphone message. Doreen killed the call and pursed her lips in irritation. She got up and shut her door firmly. If she had to leave an assertive message for him, she didn’t want anyone wandering up or down the corridor to overhear. She rang again. She knew exactly what she would say to him. It was one thing for him to be ‘maximising productivity’ at home, but it was quite another not to keep her informed. It was something they had discussed at length before, but clearly he needed reminding. And when he rang her back, she wanted an apology from him too. She pressed the redial button and prepared to wait for the five rings.

“Hello?”

The immediate response caught her by surprise. But she recovered quickly. “Even by your standards, Paul, this is late.”

There was an indistinct noise from his end of the line.

Doreen pressed on. “I can’t protect your back if I can’t get hold of you. Eddie is on the warpath and—”

“Stuff Eddie.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he ploughed on. “Haven’t you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Janice is dead.”

“Dead?” Her mouth parroted the word, while her brain was trying — and failing — to comprehend what she had just heard.

“She was killed in the Iffley Road last night. A hit and run.”

“Oh!” Doreen was still failing to come up with anything meaningful to say.

Paul Atkinson pushed on. “So you can tell Eddie the beagle that I won’t be in today and I won’t be answering his pathetic emails either.” With that, he terminated the call.

* * *

“How’s the head? Still hurting?”

Mullen nodded.

“Poor you!” Dorkin gave no impression that he meant it.

He and his tame gorilla — otherwise known as Detective Sergeant Fargo — were sitting opposite him in a characterless box of an interview room with puke-coloured walls. Fargo had already turned on the recording machine and completed the formalities. Now he was leaning forward, elbows on the table, as if ready to indulge in the chummiest of chats.

Dorkin was leaning back as far as he could go in his chair and seemed to be finding the whole thing highly amusing.